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ibattle - dirt vs. bender lyrics

[verse 1: bender]
his name nick fowler, you call him trash that’s quite generous
it’s funny you were born nicholas but you gon’ die penniless
came from the sticks, he did a bid, i’m sure y’all know the tale
i got your life story on vhs, it’s called ernest goes to jail
now, some say this was the perfect match the fact that we coexist
suggests that we share the same genes perhaps the secret’s we’re split
my half was g*nius and wit, the man you see in your midst
he’s the random pieces of sh-t like dan devito in twins
i’m at the yacht club docked on that 71-footer
you a homeless b-tt-hooker preyed on by drug pushers
done butchered your life sweetie, you hide your blood sugar
play my tape and watch the b-tch from the ring crawl out your subwoofer
now the source of my stature, ain’t no sportsmanlike banter
warp your mind like a morphine high with organized patterns
these sorta rhymes’ll, mortify these corny type rappers
he’s sure to die in a shorter time than a, former child actor in a foreign ride while swarming by the [?] with a gorgeous dime
and four-wheel drive in a storm while driving backward
past the warning signs, till the force collides, and he’s torched alive
immortalized, and teleported by the rapture
sh-t, i made a hit list of all of my stunt dummies
at the top i put this nicky b-tch on like young money
best of bender on youtube? you couldn’t fit all the lines in the limited time
best of dirt? you could put that sh-t up on vine
now real rap, i see you working a lot and yearn for the spot i’ve currently got
but dirt if you’re not earning that guap or surged to the top though your 30-some-odd skirmishes drop, or barely heard a response from any person that’s watched, learn when to stop
in fact, turn back the clock to when you first had the thought you should work any job at all that’s not concerned with a mop
they told me dirt wanted to box, i just knocked dirt out the box
dropped dirt in a box and tossed dirt on the box

[verse 1: dirt]
this where the buck f-cking stops, you m-ffin-top b-tch made diva
now dirt hits another point which only digs graves deeper
you talk about your opponents not getting p-ssy b-tch you don’t get laid neither
even if you mixed straight ether with trees and had ’em hit laced reefer
you couldn’t get a b-tch’s legs open with a push-b-tton switchblade feature
he’s such a big lame creeper that chicks this pr-ck chase either laugh at his sh-t-stained t-shirt and his pig-face features
or run fast enough to rip suede sneakers in a quick eight meters like they just saw a myth-based creature
he can’t get girls his age either
so you hollohan and that poker-playing kid named peter
been reaching out to more minors than a f-cking sick strange preacher that doubles too as a subst-tute fifth grade teacher
but let’s look back and face the past
when you hit me up sounding like a fan explaining that
you thought my battle’s great and you wanna collaborate on tracks
but i only spit with dudes i know in real life, that rap and state the facts
i’d rather take an ax to make your f-ggot face smashed and shaped till the handle breaks in half, then decapitate your -ss
but instead, i offered to have him paid in cash, travel basics and a hotel, or a lavish place to crash just for a battle date to clash but i got aggravated fast
no matter what i put on the line this crab wouldn’t grab the bait attached
i apologize to fans that waited past impatient and got agitated mad, while this f-ggot navigated past the planned escapes and dash i had to track and chase his -ss
now i can finally fly this square’s top off like he graduating cl-ss
so you lost m-ssive weight, months ago, i ain’t congratulating that
look like your habit changed from snacks and cake to crack and h or the cancer ate your fat
now it’s back to your pants and waist is packed with so much flab it chafes and aggravates your back
when this rancid waste of trash and sp-ce has to take a bath he dislocates his shoulder, reaching back to wax and shave his -ss
but his f-cking weight fluctuate back to junky traits from the drugs he take
he either malnourished ribs touching scr-pe with his cheeks in a sunken state
or he this pumpkin-shaped repugnant ape that stuff his face like he in a rush or race
with oven baked dumplings crêpes, m-ffins cake fatty cuts of steak
till a disgusting glaze glisten across his grease-covered face, then he goes back for another couple plates, like he’s being polite on a double date
till his double chin makes him suffocate, but he won’t leave a crumb or trace
then his stomach shakes and the rumble breaks another chair in his mother’s place
it don’t take much to scare bender he a feminine dude
but he becomes an airbender after mexican food

[verse 2: bender]
you look like you got a tapeworm, that has the aids germ
and that it squirms out your face rocking a straight perm like aye verb
i’m here to make sure this juggalo’s victimized without a safeword
he’ll be in the post-battle interview with his voice changed and his face blurred
you wrecked your image coming across like a washed up wrestling villain give it a rest it’s finished already read the fiction in your retinal pigment
this redneck wishing that his rep was getting recognition and respect for spitting repet-tion reminiscing of a record skipping
you chain smoke, in the swimming pool, and rock a power backstroke
you practice, mma on mdma and got a cauliflowered -ssh0l-
you disheveled piece of dog sh-t, look at yourself buddy
smoking jump rocks in a vaporizer does not make you a health junky
now who said this receptacle for [?] hit his prime for a breakthrough?
bet most of dude’s friends are just vegetables who lost all their minds sniffing plane glue
you abuse meth when accessible if not you get high off of plain glue
if you used any more chemicals obama would try to invade you
said he’s from the mean streets that’s a ridiculous fable your locale is marked out like nutritional labels
said he’s keeping a piece, he’s enlisted with nato
play around i’ll take that face off like mr. potato
sh-t, i’ll spit on anything from trap to boom bap to g-funk
but i wouldn’t sell a verse to any producer you bought a beat from
you wanna collab with the god? your whole town’ll be left penniless
cost you nothing short of rushmore, that’s a mountain of dead presidents
your sh-t’s so gentle, you make mr. wendal sound like brazilian metal if you switch the levels of the pitch and tempo then reverse until you get the devil telling you to burn a christian temple this is settled
any round i put out is quintessential
this b-tch got played out quicker than the control instrumental
i dis-ssemble your rep, at least you stand by your name
he even tattooed some dirt, on his hands and his face
i set up hard-hitting lines, you set up carnival rides
go smoke a lightbulb full of meth crawl back to your barn and just die

[verse 2: dirt]
sometimes you can tell a true b-tch, just by who he move with
and your main man got ball sweat wiped all over his face and y’all ain’t do sh-t
wait, ball sweat, on his face, they ain’t do sh-t
had that happened to somebody in the goon clique, woulda gone beyond two fists
maybe loe is a toothpick, and was outsized, but he wasn’t, and your “goons” were there too b-tch
all big enough to sink a cruise ship
if y’all had any b-lls at all, you woulda stepped in and threw quick at least a few hits but you just stood there looking stupid and confused about to lose it and throw a huge fit
so you still b-tthurt ’cause you too much of a chump to jump and got stuck stiff as a glue stick
or was it ’cause somebody else’s ball sweat just got smudged across your boo’s lips?
y’all mumbled some sh-t under your breath like you woulda done a f-cking thing anyway
and waited till y’all left to say some sh-t on twitter in a furious text display
till daylyt told you pop off then, even tweeted the hotel address where he rest and stay
what the f-ck did your team do? not show up to world domination second day
’cause you were too busy sitting ’round b-tching with sh-t grown men would never say
like ‘battle rap is f-cking real dude, we shoulda brought the pepper spray’
so, these b-tch cats went back where they live
stocked up on sunblock, lathered they skin
strapped on they hats with sungl-sses already attached to the brims
got turned nocturnal and keep it pitch-black in they cribs
’cause your whole clique more terrified of daylyt alone than dracula is
no strikes for light b-tches, what y’all write ain’t life is it
now the brain’s response to confrontation’s referred to as fight or flight distance
see if my team’s most violent rapper was exposed as a lying actor
by being pushed around, pocket checked, ball sweat wiped and slathered across his face then he was caught smiling after and giggling with childish laughter
i think anybody real can agree, that’d be the deciding factor
he’d get forced into resigning faster than a defiant pastor caught reciting chapters of the bible backwards during a time of rapture
but you probably need him there to wipe your -ss and grind your back like a chiropractor ’cause at the rate you were backing out and ducking me it probably gave you a spinal fracture

[verse 3: bender]
i wasn’t even there at world domination, so i couldn’t do sh-t
but even if i was face to face with daylyt i, probably wouldn’t do sh-t
now they been tryna convince me this turbo skid has some heat
i was curious just to see what he’s working with so i peeped
but you ain’t worthy of kissing my feet or the dirt that sits underneath don’t bother calling a surgeon tell the nurse go get him a priest
heard you b-tched to organik said you earned a trip to compete
didn’t work you had a girly fit heard a cl!ck and you weep
went online all p-ssy-eyed, burned your bridge with the league so here’s this ho starved for attention tryna turn this into a beef
now, i took some time off battles, felt i earned a minute of peace
but dirt just wouldn’t hush till i returned to give him a piece
now he wanna see that monster that lurks within getting freed
it’s like you’re working with the police, you just turned me into the beast
by the way, how long you, serve in prison, a week?
you spent less time in the bucket than the colonel’s chicken i eat
was not acting like a f-ggot a term for getting released? ’cause if that’s the case son that’s the first condition you’ve breached
i weigh 230, sh-t, you in worse condition than me
look like you got a 230 a day perc addiction and feed
neuron syndrome fatigue, nervous system all tweaked
still popping those pills like you found a cure for liver disease
oh you battled in the url? word, well sh-t let me see
oh, it hasn’t been uploaded yet? don’t worry give it a week
well you already merc’ed a canadian? sh-t dirt you’re kidding me, g
those joints must’ve been cl-ssic, i’m sure they’re getting released
bottom line you ain’t sh-t you’re obscure a drip in the sea
to search for dirt you’d need a journalism degree
here’s a pearl of wisdom to keep if this pervert lives on your street make sure your kids tend to keep all their curtains dipped when you sleep
i’m merciless when i speak, this ain’t murder, this isn’t beef
this is, xerxes sending in fleets of persian ships into greece
play a dirty pig on the beat, then merc’ the kid on the creep
or i’ll just take this d-ck out the hood like a circ-mcision for free
now, i’m not asking for no purple ribbon received
but godd-mn i just showed y’all the perfect rinse of a scheme
so f-ck this squeegee-wielding bum, and the sperm that lives in his t–th
just another head for my trophy case dirt you’re finished that’s three

[verse 3: dirt]
he’s got an ill condition
still afflicted with a pill addiction so to get it popping he gotta go fill prescriptions just to k!ll the itching
even with your free healthcare, you need a team of sk!lled physicians a f-cking real magician dr. phil to listen while you’re feeling christian
till admission and guilt have driven you enough to build ambition and develop a will for quitting
your whole league smells fishy, this lame ogre’s not the only strange odor
i’m the ace-holder, when i pull cards and play jokers it’s game over
who gives a f-ck if you were king of the dot champion chain-holder?
you got left open by the world’s worst wigger just accepted and gained closure
and you coulda retained your worthless chain if you just coulda remained sober
plus i wrote for the guy that wrote for your former champ when deadlines became closer
during the grand prix, he overheated something seized in his brain’s motor
so that writer’s block transformed from a brick to a slate boulder
if i took people to court that t-tle and chain woulda changed owners
i might as well as just played coach the way i gazed over arcane’s shoulder
that’s why american and canadian hip hop aren’t even the same culture
you see a canuck spitting heat, gotta wonder who’s fueling the flamethrower
so, f-ck a canadian legend status like it ever mattered you pretentious b-st-rd
your multis set the standard for everlasting lecture-fashion schemes that never happen to directly stab his opponent or reach a real point like fencing matches
this endless m-ss of stretching fatness such a gentle p-ssive soft-as-a-feather-mattress tender f-ggot
i could press and slap him and he wouldn’t throw so much as a f-cking temper tantrum
so if need be, start stepping backwards
’cause fat boy you could eat t–th to maintain your sp-ce, with or without the dental brackets
i write hot enough to melt tempered gl-ss and leave a pencil ashes
with bars cold enough when applied to fake or synthetic plastics it makes the center crack
causing pressure fractures which will instantly turn the slightest bend to shatters
my gun put in good work, but i’ll let it go without a severance package
i’d extend the ratchet, but you won’t catch a blast and extensive damage from the lead and shrapnel metal fragments instead i’m tagging your head with handles of heavy straps and carry-ons so in this case, it’s send him packing with metal baggage
my heart’s upstate but my brain’s iraq
so soon as this lame fly back i hope your flight distance change to nine inches in less than five minutes after your plane’s hijacked

- ibattle lyrics

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